


the curve of her hip (and the I-81)

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: slow as honey [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Mostly Porn Without Plot, Smut, but then they got feels-y, tumblr prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:07:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They run their lives on snatched moments. This is one they're definitely taking for themselves. </p><p>(AKA Steve takes Maria on a ride. Sex ensues.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the curve of her hip (and the I-81)

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt from the wonderful mel-loves-all. She asked for Steve taking Maria on his bike. Therefore, this Word doc received the highly coveted "Motorcycle Sex" file name. 
> 
> I literally have no other way of telling you just how NSFW this fic is.

Maria’s never felt as free as she does on the back of Steve’s bike. She shouldn’t really because she’s not the one in control, she’s not the one guiding the bike over the rain slicked streets, weaving around traffic and traffic laws and into the woods of upstate New York. The wind is a thrill over her shoulders, the heat of him comforting against her chest and the strength of him lulling her into a enjoying the countryside, rather than dwelling on the responsibilities she’s leaving behind.

“Where to, Lieutenant?”

She shivers against his back because she shouldn’t like the way he says her title near as much as she does. He knows it too, she’s discovered, never uses it in front of their colleagues, their friends, never pulls it out when she’s the one in command.

But here, when it’s just him, and it’s just her, Maria and Steve, her title becomes as much of a caress as his broad palm on her thighs. She sighs out a breath, knows he can hear it over the comms he’d bought specifically for moments like this.

“Anywhere.”

On nights like these they can drive for hours, Steve’s stamina keeping him up and aware and Maria lost in the countryside and the strength of him. For a couple of hours, for an evening, if she’s feeling particularly sappy, even a night and a morning after, she doesn’t have to be anyone she doesn’t want to be.

She doesn’t generally dwell on how much of a role Steve plays in that feeling.

“Anywhere it is. Hold on.”

She doesn’t have to hold tighter than she is, doesn’t have to squeeze her arms around him or weave her fingers tighter. But she does, gives him the satisfaction of feeling the way her arms tighten around his abs, the teasing stroke she gives the ridges of them. It’s a tease for them both, maybe even a precursor, but he just guns the engine and takes off on the back highways of New York State.

And Maria lets herself fly.

Eventually, adrenaline and the strength of him beneath her make her bold, make her run her hands along his chest and his stomach, a tease, a torment and the precursor to what the ride does to her.

“Maria.”

She hears the warning in his voice and chuckles in response, a low, dirty sound.

“You keep teasing, sweetheart, I’ll take you against a tree again.”

She shivers because she can’t help herself. Her body remembers, the harsh scratch of the bark, against the bare skin of her back, the loose tops she’d worn for a week while those scratches heeled. And the hot and fast release, the rush of endorphins and just how easy it had been to take the security meetings the next day.

“Safehouse,” she offers, because she can feel the way her hips want to arch into him, the way they want to dance in circles over the strength of the bike beneath her. “Take a right, two miles up the road.”

“Is it safe?”

She grins, adrenaline slipping into her blood, dark and feral. She’s only fought alongside him a handful of times, but she remembers each one clearer than the famous ones.

“Between you and me? It will be.”

The low chuckle makes her think of his blue eyes, intense, focused, in his element. She’d thought he’d like that.

“Right you say?”

She laughs, loud and clear as he speeds up, takes the next turn, curls them onto the little road. He follows it until she can see the shadow of a building, then kills the engine, kills the lights. Her sidearm comes out of his pack, his follows. For a second, his grin is the only thing she sees in the dark before they make their way up the stairs.

She goes around the island while he clears the kitchen, skips into the mudroom and the covered porch while she hits the bedroom, the en suite.

“Clear.”

She doesn’t jump when she hears his voice behind her, but she does spin, does set her gun on the bedside table. “Clear.”

“Cameras?”

“Not operational,” she answers, because while the place looks put together and perfect, she can still see the mark of the bullet in the walls where Coulson and Hunter ambushed Hydra.

It’s enough for him and he pounces on her a moment later tumbles her to the bed in a mix of laughter and arousal, her body already arching into his, her hands slipping under his jacket to shove it down his arms, away from his body. The Henley follows and she takes a look, drinks her fill.

“Fair’s fair.”

She chuckles as she follows him up, strips her own leather jacket off while he yanks at the hem of her t-shirt. Her bra goes next and his hands move immediately to her breasts, her laughter catching on the pleasure that zings through her when his bare hands are on her skin. God, she absolutely loves just how wrong Stark and his rumours had been about Steve’s prowess in bed.

It helps that he knows her body, that his hands know exactly how to cup her breasts, exactly how to pluck at her nipples, the exact sound she needs to make before he leans down to lift her breast to his mouth. His tongue is hot and gentle at first, presses in harder as her hips start to dance. He brings his teeth into play when they do. He knows how much she likes the press of his hands on her hips, that she loves the way he devours her mouth when he’s done playing with her breasts.

She grips his hair and pulls him away from her mouth, has to take a minute to get her brain back online. “Naked.”

“As the lady commands.”

He yanks her boots off, toes his off at the same time while she deals with the button and fly of her jeans. He catches her hands when she moves to shove them down, presses them away to the mattress at her hips. She hears the message loud and clear, curls her fingers into fists. He peels her jeans open, spreads his hands over her hips and strokes his thumbs over her underwear. Her jeans come down her thighs a moment later and he sweeps them off her legs. Then his hands are on her knees, pressing them apart, making room for his shoulders.

“Every time you straddle the bike this is all I can think of,” he tells her thigh. “All I can see is the way you spread your legs for me. All I can imagine is the way your thighs tense against mine, the way I know they do around my waist.”

She has to blow out a breath and tip her head back. She never can look at him when he’s like this, intense blue eyes and diamond hard lust all over his face. It’s too much evidence of how much he wants her. It’s too much evidence that he’ll never tire of her, she’ll never be anything but everything he wants.

A moment later, her thoughts scatter when he brushes her thumb over the silk of her panties. Her breath stutters and her stomach contracts, her legs coming up so her thighs press against his ears. “Steve.”

“I think about that voice too, just a little bit ruined.” He lisks a wide stripe along her thigh to her panties, makes her shiver as the cold air chases the hot saliva. He nips her thigh then to get her attention. “Then again, I think about that voice when you’re in control too. How long would it take, do you think, for me to mess you up when you’re focused on the job?”

He’d never try it, they both know it, but it’s an interesting thought, pinning her to the wall in her office after she’s debriefed him on a mission, her voice calm, collected, informative one minute, and raw and rough the next. “Not long.”

“No,” he agrees, fingers slipping along her panties to pull them aside, to expose her to his gaze. His eyes on her in moments like these are as potent as a caress, leave her thighs shaking in the wake of his perusal. “I do love how wet riding makes you. Is it the machine?”

“No,” she says breathlessly, arching her back, begging for his mouth. “The machine’s the bonus.” She looks down at him then, because she won’t give him the satisfaction of pulling her under this early.

He hums into her skin because he knows. He knows exactly why she likes riding with him, the agility it shows, the flex of his hands on the handlebars, the sway of his body into each turn. A ballet on the pavement that she’d never thought was any sort of reflection of strength or agility until she’d climbed on with him. Sometimes, some nights, he’ll make her say it, make her vocalize everything she enjoys about him, about them. But the grip on her thighs tells her he’s too impatient for that.

The flush is high in his cheeks when he presses his mouth to the bare skin above her mound, as his tongue flicks out to take the first taste of her clit. His left hand is already sliding under her thigh, under his chin and she sighs as she feels his fingers stroke along her folds. He groans into her, the vibrations stuttering against her clit.

“You’re never this soaked at home,” he whispers to her, “Did you know that? Not even after missions when you’re revved so high it takes seconds to get you off.” He sucks at her for a moment, drags his tongue down the length of her and back up again. She bites her tongue against the keen that climbs her throat when he slips two fingers inside without resistance. “Just here, outside of the city, when we ride the bike away from everything.”

He curls his fingers, and she can feel the catch in her chest, knows that’s exactly what’s he’s listening for. It had been intimidating at first, just how well he could read her every breath when she’s naked beneath him. Now it’s a comfort, the knowledge that he always knows what she wants, always listens for what she needs.

“It’s like you know there’s no expectations here. There’s nothing but you and me.” His right hand smooths down her thigh, wraps around her ankle in the way that he always does when he looks down at her afterwards, sated, happy, and murmurs just how much he wants to draw her like this, the curve of her knee, the dip of her stomach. He has before, her on her stomach, the back of her head, the curve of her spine, the arch of her ass.

“Put your hands in my hair, sweetheart,” he tells her. “Show me.”

Her hands clench once more on the mattress, then slip through his hair. This is her favourite part, she thinks, that iconic face between her spread thighs, wicked grin on his face. There is nothing innocent about this man, that’s for sure and she presses down with her fingers until his mouth is on her clit. It doesn’t take much, a tug here, a tug there, the scratch of her nails across his scalp. He knows what she likes and drives her higher and higher, curls his fingers tighter with every thrust until she’s shattering with a choked off cry.

“There’s one. Shall we go for a record?”

She laughs weakly. He is competitive, especially here, with himself more than with her and if she says yes, she has no doubt he will make sure they at least tie her running record of orgasms in one night. But that’s not what she wants and she arches and stretches beautifully against him, humming as she tugs on his hair. He chuckles, wipes his wet face against her stomach until she’s squirming.

“Give me time to clean up. You think about that record.”

He leaves her there, lax against the bare mattress. She hears the water run in the other room, seriously considers letting him go for that record, thinks about how relaxed she’ll be in the morning, how the persistent ache that always follows makes her eyes flutter with every step, keeps her mind half focused on memories of how good he feels against her, how unexpected he’d been. 

She hears his feet first, long before his mouth presses against her knee, the long sinuous line of his back making her breath hitch and her fingers clench. He is beautiful, whether that’s the serum using what God had first gifted Steven Grant Rogers or the man he is now, she does not care.

“So?”

“No record,” she says on a happy little exhale. His mouth is on her thigh now, climbing higher and higher. She shifts beneath him, widens her legs. “Just you.”

Still, he takes his time. (She’d asked him once why. Why he goes so damn slow when he knows she wants it, knows she needs it. He savours it, he’d said, with a look on his face that told her it is as much about memory as it is about sex. It had taken her another few months to really get it.) His mouth follows the path of her leg, up over her hip. His hands settle on her hips when he reaches her stomach and she sighs, relaxes.

“We should go for a record again soon,” he says to the skin between her breasts, flicks his gaze up for a moment before his concentration shifts to her collarbone. “It’s been too long since we’ve tried.”

“It’s been too long since we’ve had time to try,” she retorts, raises her arms above her head. He pushes up on his knees and looks down at her, naked and spread. His smile is too soft for the heat in his eyes. His hands stroke the curve of her body, ribs to hips and back again. Her body arches with the touch, still sensitive, still aroused. “Steve.”

He takes her mouth as he settles against her, his cock sliding through her slick heat. She gasps into his mouth and pushes into the minute subconscious thrusts. He breathes out against her lips, harsh and wanting, like he’s forgotten he wants this too. She wants to laugh, would if she could find the brain power.

(He does that, forgets that he’s involved in this too. Like his only goal is to give her pleasure without taking his in response. It’s endearing and unnecessary, especially when she asks outright.)

“You’re teasing,” she murmurs, brings her hands down to loop over his neck. He blinks open desperate blue eyes (because he always, always asks, like someday she’s going to say no) and she shifts, wraps her thighs around his hips. It lines him up perfectly and he reaches down to hold himself steady as he pushes inside.

She’s not clichéd enough to say it feels like home, not sentimental enough to call it anything other than the most wonderful pleasure, but there’s always something else about the way he bottoms out inside her, a feeling in the stretch of her body that makes her sigh in contentment. Her eyes flutter as he shifts, gets himself on his elbows.

(She will admit that there’s something about Steve looming above her, wrapping himself around her that just gets her, leaves her struggling to breathe around the heat of him, the scent of him, everything.

It’s no different now.)

The pace he starts is slow, thorough, deep. It leaves her moaning with every push, gasping as he withdraws. Her nails dig into his scalp at the flare of her nerves, her body arching with each thrust, her thighs tensing around his hips.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs in her ear. “No record, but we’ll do it this way instead. Draw it out, slow and steady, make you feel every inch, huh?”

She nods until her neck arches on a particularly delicious thrust.

“Oh, there it is, huh? Right there?” He does it again and her mouth pops open in a soundless cry. God, he’s good at this. He’s good at her.

“I love this you know,” he says, mouth right at her ear. “You, spread out beneath me, not focused on any damn thing but this. I love knowing what I can do to you, Maria, how the slightest shift of my hips-“

She whines when he changes the angle, when the thrust isn’t quite what she wants. His chuckle is low and dark. Evil.

“Exactly. Exactly that, sweetheart. Here, we’ll go back. Like this, right?”

God, she’s going to kill him. Either that or she’s going to flip him (she still has enough tricks to make it happen) and slam her hips into his until they’re both seeing stars. She is, okay, it’s just… he shifts again and everything goes hot and tight and almost, almost enough.

“You know why I want to go for a record, sweetheart? Because then I get you like this whenever I want. No work, no saving the world, just you and me and the feel of you. God, I’m always thinking about it, about you, about how no one else gets you like this but me.”

(His possession should piss her off. Possession always has. Except he follows it up by being a team mate outside of the bedroom, respecting her plans and her command. This is the only place he tries to control her, and the only place Maria’s felt at all comfortable with giving up some of that control.

Especially, especially when it ends like this.)

Her eyes pop open (had they closed?) as his hands slide beneath her shoulders. “More.”

His grin is feral, a flash, before he’s thrusting in earnest, the sensations too much for her body to process as anything more than absolute exquisite pleasure. She gasps, she moans, she arches and then he’s slipping a huge hand between them, finding her clit with his thumb and pressing, pressing…

“Come on, sweetheart. Come on, Maria. Look at how close you are. Just let go. Let it take you.”

He takes her mouth when she tumbles over that edge, the kiss sloppy and messy as everything in her tightens. It always takes him with her, the way her body goes so, so taut beneath him, so tight with the pleasure, everything squeezing around him.

(She’d asked once, out of absolute curiosity because they have this rule about always being honest in the bedroom. He’d told her once it feels like she’s trying to crawl into his skin, like she’s the only thing holding him together, and that gets him more than just about anything else.

Except when he leaves marks on her skin and they’re still there the next time he gets her naked.)

His breath is cool against the sweat on her shoulder, his body too hot over her over-sensitive skin, but she clings. Her arms say wrapped tight around him, her hands threaded through his hair as she looks blankly at the ceiling. Nothing gets her like this. An oasis in the desert that is her required Ice Queen Cape.

Then she wrinkles her nose at herself, at her brain’s ridiculous over-flowery nature post Steve-induced orgasm.

Finally he pushes back, his gaze so warm on hers. His fingertips stroke gently at the hair around her face, drifting across her cheek and her jaw. “We really should go for a record soon,” he says. “We keep snatching evenings like this.”

It’s been all they’ve both been able to afford with Ultron and the new team, her new double duty and the lack of time she gets to spend in upstate New York. She shifts beneath him as he pulls out, as he heads for the bathroom to clean up again. He returns with a wet cloth, strokes at her skin. She lets him, of course, because it’s something he needs to do.

She hums as he runs the cloth gently between her thighs. She’s still going to need a shower before they leave, both of them leaking out of her, but she’s not quite ready to move yet. “I have to go Rio next month for a few days.”

He hums. “Brazil is beautiful.”

“Brazil is dangerous,” she corrects easily. “I could stretch my stay a couple of days. Say a weekend.”

His eyes are so bright when he looks up from where he’d been pressing kisses against her kneecap, a gentle connection of touch that doesn’t make either of them shake and shiver. “Yeah?”

She shrugs. “Brazil is beautiful.”

He laughs as he drops the cloth over the side of the bed and crawls up her body. She cups his face in her hands as she lets him kiss her, even tilts her chin into it. While this kiss lacks the arousal and the desperation, it doesn’t lack any of the emotion neither of them talk about.

(They don’t need to. Both of them say more than a gesture and a touch than either of them could ever put into words.)

“I could probably clear my schedule for a weekend in Brazil.”

“Good,” she says, sitting up and running a hand through her mussed hair. She can blame it on the helmet, she thinks. “Let’s get going. We’re going to be missed.”

He catches her face and kisses her again, presses her back to the mattress just because he can. She’s gasping and laughing when he finally releases her, her body humming pleasantly and considering round two.

“If you want to avoid taking me against a tree, you should probably hold off there, Captain.”

He grins at her, tugs on her arm. She shifts a little, remembers that shower. He’s already pulling her towards the bathroom, a glint in her eye she is very, very familiar with.

“Maybe not a tree, but how do you feel about tile, Lieutenant?”

She shivers. “I can be persuaded.”

It doesn’t take much persuasion at all. Not that she’d really thought it would.

And on the ride back she lets herself lean against the back of his shoulder, another moment where she can be just Maria without the strings and the hard-heart that make her everything she is in New York. He stops on the outskirts of the facility, looks down at the bright lights, then over his shoulder at her.

“How long until Brazil?”

She takes the helmet off right there to kiss him.


End file.
